


2.5 Household

by fearsomecritter



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Children, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, The X-Files Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearsomecritter/pseuds/fearsomecritter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My parents only look old when they look at each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2.5 Household

Star Trek hums low in the background. It’s cheese, the good kind. Friendship and resolution in 43 minutes flat. Things my dad needs but doesn't know how to ask for. From this angle I can make out the little tricolor grid, the pixels purporting to be real things in space. "Data’s cat had kittens,” I say, just to see if Dad’s alive.

He never turns on the lights and I can’t tell where he ends and futon begins. Every few minutes he shifts in his seat, and with him shifts a green jacket that reeks of sweat and instant dinner. The legs of his jeans hang baggy, bunched up along the edge like they expect more flesh. Dad has looked worse, but he's also looked better.

Two hours before Mom shows up, he shaves and smothers himself in discount deodorant. He thinks it helps. She only stays as long as it takes me to pack my bags.

I’m the one who opens the door, leads her through this maze of a house. We step over stained newspapers and around books that have seen better days. Dad hasn’t moved from his place on the couch. She looks at him half repulsed, half adoring, like she’s a little girl and he’s a pony but not the pony she asked for. Her hair is slick, her clothes are smooth lines. She reeks of men’s cologne. The living room can’t help but come off extra shabby, nothing but a rough draft. A Fruit of the Loom tag pokes out from Dad's shirt like a little fabric tongue.

She turns toward me and her face softens up. My parents only look old when they look at each other. She smiles. I smile back. I’m swallowed by a swathe of blue cotton, shirt three sizes too big, the way I prefer. Red Virginia clay has left my soles and palms a shade so dark they look fake. Dirt gathers under my nails. I feel like an extra from _The Waltons_.

“The garden looks nice, Mulder. I’m glad you and William fixed it up.” Her tone is one of trained composure, the kind that develops after years of taking care of other people's children. And so I try not to question the slight quiver in her voice, how my words never really seem to reach her.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Dad fishes for a reaction. But Mom just turns cool and hollow, slips into that hard place where no one can follow. Her voice rises two pitches and stays there. Minutes pass. They talk about things I want to tune out. I know she notices the stains, the fact that his house looks like the house of someone who has better things to do than vacuum or dust. I used to respect that, thought him sympathetic. Now I feel ashamed.

Mom hugs me. She’s getting skinny, sharp in places I expect to yield. I think about osteoporosis statistics. She reaches up and runs her fingers along the contour of my head. Her hands are rough and chapped the way doctors’ hands often are. I catch a whiff of something sweet and fruity, what could be bacterial soap. She seems washed out, almost translucent, as if being here has leached something from her. Maybe it has.

“How’s school?” The lines on her face are stretched taut and it's up to me to fix them. Under her scrutiny my back begins to curl up, my eyes sink down to the floor. I lose inches. There are things I want to tell her and things I can, and those categories never seem to intersect.

“Well, umm,” I begin. Already her face is one big frown. I can picture her hurt before the words even slip out and that’s why they stick to my throat, rearrange themselves into something palatable.

“Everything’s fine.”

Today's June 7th, but it could be any day, any week, and nothing would be different. Dad would still be sitting on that couch and sinking deeper, melding with the leather, and Mom and I would still be standing by the door, watching him sink.


End file.
